Alick glanced questioningly at Kirsteen. He was looking very handsome that day in a dark blazer and light grey flannels. ‘Hey, what’s wrong?’ he enquired quizzically. ‘Has the cat got your tongue? This is a picnic, not a funeral.’ His voice was soft, well-modulated and rather pleasing to the ears. He grinned teasingly. ‘What’s the matter, Kirsteen, don’t you like sitting beside me or is it just that you can’t bear to let big brother away from your side for a single minute?’
Kirsteen gave herself a shake – she couldn’t – she wouldn’t – let Fergus see how much he was hurting her, and she forced herself to smile at Alick, her blue eyes very bright in her smooth-skinned face.
‘That’s better.’ Alick looked at her appreciatively. She still had the figure of a girl – with breasts that were soft yet firm, skin that was smooth and golden, blonde hair a ruffle of curls in the breeze. Her white dress was simple, loose-topped, with a soft flowing skirt belted at the waist. It draped over the curves of her body, revealing without flaunting. A gust of wind at Downie’s Pass made Mary yell and hold onto her hat, and without warning Kirsteen’s skirt billowed in the air, briefly exposing her long shapely legs before she grabbed at the folds and tucked them firmly under her. Alick’s eyes gleamed at the sight, and Fergus’s mask of jollity fell away. A thundery shadow fell over his dark face and he glowered at his brother. A bemused Alick interpreted the message. ‘This woman is mine,’ it said more plainly than words. ‘I know every plane of her body, the secrets of it are mine alone. I know how she looks in sleep, how she responds to me when she is awake.’
Alick sensed the tension and shifted uneasily. He realized for the first time since the start of the holiday that Fergus and Kirsteen were not on speaking terms.
‘Big brother is watching us,’ he mouthed in Kirsteen’s ear. ‘For God’s sake, I don’t want any trouble. Come on, sing – we’re on a picnic and I, for one, am going to enjoy it.’
And sing Kirsteen did, in a rather shaky voice, and she kept on singing desperately till they arrived at Tràigh Mor Bay, Bay of the Great Sands. Here, on the cliffs above the bay, rising up from the machair, was a towering mass of soft rock, which rose up to a height of seven hundred feet, studded with hazel bushes and innumerable starlike primroses. Jagged cliffs of a harder rock divided Tràigh Mor Bay from An Coire Srùb Bay, Bay of the Spouting Kettle, where at high tide the sea thundered into vast underground caverns to gush spurting and foaming, fifty feet and more, from a spout-shaped vent above the splintered crags. The tide was in now and it was an awesome experience to hear the sea roaring into the vast subterranean caverns and to watch it spuming out of the blow hole, sending millions of glistening droplets high into the air.
‘We’ll have to wait till the tide goes out before we go down,’ said Phebie, who was as jubilant as an excited child. It wasn’t often that she and Lachlan had time to spend together, and they went off, arm in arm over the emerald-green clifftops, which were studded with numerous wildflowers. Grant was hoisting Lorn onto his shoulders and he held out a hand to Lewis. They ran laughing to watch the spout at close quarters, followed by Shona and Niall skipping like small children. Babbie and Anton followed more sedately, hands entwined, lost in a world of their own. ‘Do you remember, liebling,’ he whispered into her ear, ‘that day we made love in the sands at Aosdana Bay?’
‘As if I could ever forget,’ she murmured dreamily.
His hand tightened over hers and he said tenderly, ‘We had so little time to love then . . . now,’ he said, gazing at the panorama of sea and sky, ‘now we have it all – all the years of our lives to love.’
Babbie laid her curly red head against his fair one and they walked on, lovers even after four years of marriage.
Jon and Fiona were finding they had a good deal in common, for he, like she, was interested in flora and fauna, and they strolled away, pouncing every so often on unusual plant specimens.
Mary stood at the edge of the cliffs in raptures. ‘How perfectly wonderful!’ she exclaimed in her high light voice. ‘I’ve never been to this side of Rhanna before.’
The wind buffeted Kirsteen, tossing her curls, moulding her dress to her body, whipping up her skirt to once more reveal her long brown legs. She was unaware of the effect that the sight of her was having on Fergus. God, she was desirable, a creature that could tempt any man to – to – the muscle of his jaw tightened. If only they were alone in this place where passion had carried them heavenwards on effortless wings. Surrounded by such memories they could perhaps have made up – made love on the sands as they had done so often in the past . . .
Kirsteen staggered and stumbled on a rock. Alick gallantly caught her arm, and without being able to help it, she found herself leaning against him. She felt awkward and unsure. Alick might go off with Mary, leaving her alone with Fergus and she didn’t know how to handle him in his present frame of mind.
But then Fergus solved the problem for her. He was calling on Mary, his lilting voice snatched by the breeze: ‘Mary! I’ll show you round the place! I know it well. Come on.’
‘What did you say?’ Holding onto her hat, Mary bent into the wind towards him and he took her arm to pull her close, the wind giving him the excuse to shout louder than was necessary.
‘I know how to get along Coire Srùb Bay without getting wet feet – even at high tide. I’ll take you along by the reefs where you can see the Bodach Beag – when the tide recedes we’ll go over.’
He was turning the knife in a wound already tender. Kirsteen swayed and closed her eyes. Coire Srùb Bay was theirs, where they had come in the wonderful days of their courtship; made love on the hot white sands – but most of all, Bodach Beag had belonged to them alone: they had laid claim to it on their first picnic in the bays of Croy. It was a tidal island, cut off from Rhanna at high water, a picturesque haven inhabited only by sheep who cropped the turf till it resembled a bowling green. The surrounding sea was broken by high craggy rocks and reefs bounded by pink shell sands. At the eastern end, abutting into the sea, was a round tower of rock shearing up to a tattered pinnacle fifty feet high. Its name, Bodach Beag, meant Little Old Man, and from certain angles it did indeed appear as a bent old man gazing broodingly into the frothing sea far below. Kirsteen and Fergus had gone to Bodach Beag on their first picnic together, they had been cut off by the tide but it hadn’t mattered. They hadn’t cared about time on that sunlit summer’s day with the sea foaming at their feet and the great crags enfolding them as they made love on the sands with the water caressing them as tenderly as they caressed one another . . . Kirsteen gave a little sob and clamped her fist to her mouth.
Fergus and Mary had disappeared and Alick reached out to touch her. ‘Hey, c’mon now,’ he said soothingly. ‘It can’t be that bad.’
She passed a hand wearily over her eyes. ‘Oh but it is, Alick, it is.’
‘Everyone has rows in marriage,’ he told her. ‘Hell, I had enough of them myself at the start of mine.’
‘This is more than just a row, Alick – it’s – oh, I don’t know what it is – I only know it’s all my fault!’ she cried despairingly.
‘Nonsense, there’s always two sides.’ Alick glanced round. The clifftops were deserted, everyone having dispersed about their various pursuits. ‘I tell you what,’ he said, and taking her by the shoulders, he gently pushed her down on the grass and sat down beside her. ‘We’re going to sit here, in full view of everyone who isn’t here, and you are going to use my shoulder – oh yes, I insist.’ His dark eyes were compassionate. ‘You can trust me now, really. I’m not the silly young goat I once was – in fact I’d say I’ve grown into a rather dignified and somewhat respectable gentleman – in case you haven’t noticed.’
Kirsteen gave him a watery smile. He had always been able to make her laugh, to forget things – that had been the root of the trouble all these years ago.
‘But – you’ll hate me when you hear – it’s – it’s about you.’ She clasped her knees and avoided his eyes th
ough she couldn’t avoid hearing his startled intake of breath.
‘About me? I don’t see . . .’
‘Oh, it wasn’t about you really, it was about Lorn when it started. I wanted Fergus to stop shielding him and let him do more about the farm. He got angry – you know how afraid he is for Lorn – one word borrowed another and – and it ended up with me casting up the past – raking up that time when you – when you . . .’
‘Oh hell, no,’ Alick protested, ‘not that! No wonder Fergus was looking daggers at me earlier. Oh, Lord!’ He drew up his knees and gazed broodingly at the swirling sea below. There was silence between them for some time before he burst out, ‘But why, Kirsteen? It’s not like you to be so petty.’
Her face burned crimson and she shook her head. ‘I don’t really know. Well, perhaps I do – at least I think I do – I felt as if history was repeating itself. Lewis being made to feel he always had to play the protector, fighting Lorn’s battles – like – like . . .’
‘Like Fergus and me,’ Alick finished bitterly. ‘Have no fear of that, Kirsteen. The twins are entirely different from me and the big brother who did all my fighting for me. Lewis is the strong one physically, ay, but Lorn is the one with the backbone. Oh, don’t get me wrong. Lewis is a grand little chap – a bit devil-may-care, but he’ll settle down. He’s too wise to ever let himself be leaned on by Lorn or by anyone else.’
‘I’m sorry, Alick,’ she murmured, ‘I shouldn’t have burdened you with this, and you on holiday.’
He smiled crookedly. ‘Isn’t that what brothers-in-law are for? To confide in now and then? I’ve always had the feeling that I owed you something, Kirsteen, and if a bit of advice from me helps you, then it is also salving my conscience to some extent. And I’ll tell you something for nothing. Fergus is crazy about you – why else do you think he’s gone off with my wife? Certainly not because he’s ever been overly fond of her – I can assure you. He’s behaving like a spoilt brat and the best thing you can do is ignore his behaviour. He’ll be the first to come to his senses, believe me. He didn’t search for you for six long years just because you happen to be a very lovely lady.’
‘But I slapped him!’ Kirsteen almost wailed.
‘Really?’ Alick grinned. ‘Then no wonder he’s sulking, I doubt anyone has ever hit him before. No doubt he deserved it, so stop worrying and let’s go and enjoy ourselves. The tide’s on the turn.’
They found the others on the beach, swimming or paddling, and without more ado Alick rolled up his immaculate trousers and went into the fray, leaving Kirsteen to go behind a rock and peel off her dress to emerge wearing a yellow swimsuit that made even Lachlan whistle in teasing admiration.
Fergus walked with Mary along Coire Srùb Bay. Now that he was out of Kirsteen’s sight, his mask of jollity had fallen away, leaving his face dark and brooding.
In a way, Mary was glad to be free of his attentions, for while she had always enjoyed flirting with men, she had always instinctively known that Fergus wasn’t the flirtatious type and she had felt somewhat uneasy when he had made such unusually friendly overtures towards her. She had never fully understood him, though she liked him a lot better than she had done in the beginning. ‘Fergus, let’s go back,’ she suggested. ‘I can see your Bodach Beag another time. I’m getting a bit peckish.’ Hiding a smile at the alacrity with which he accepted her decision, she ran to keep up with him. She wasn’t going to get her feet wet if she could help it, and she needed his help to negotiate the slippery reefs and rock pools.
Everyone was enjoying themselves at Tràigh Mor Bay. Fergus’s eyes flashed at sight of Kirsteen in the yellow swimsuit, her limbs golden, her head thrown back in an agony of laughter as Niall and Shona splashed her with great handfuls of freezing sea. His absence hadn’t affected her at all, and his frown deepened further when he spotted Lorn swimming happily, flanked by Lewis and Grant. A sharp protest rose to his lips but he quelled it.
Grant saw Fergus and unease clouded his young face in anticipation of the expected admonishment, but relief made him smile again as Fergus took off his shoes and socks and waded out to the shallows.
Lorn scrambled onto a rock, his breath coming fast but his blue eyes triumphant. ‘I can swim quite well now, Father,’ he said rather defiantly.
‘So I see,’ said Fergus dryly. ‘You have obviously been practising.’
‘I taught him, Father,’ Grant said gruffly. ‘I think everyone should learn how to swim. You never know when you might have to – do you?’ There was a message in the words. Grant held his father’s look boldly.
‘Ay, you’re right, lad,’ Fergus conceded at last and understanding passed between father and son.
Rachel appeared over the cliffs. She had been to the tinkers’ camp at Dunuaigh, which had been deserted except for old Mo lying in the sun in his pram. The old man and the little girl had spent a wonderful hour playing their fiddles, and Rachel was in a jubilant mood when she came to Tràigh Mor Bay and saw the frolics in the sea below. Without hesitation she raced with Squint down to the beach to stand for a moment curling her bare feet into the warm sand, savouring the feel of it trickling between her toes. She was wearing grubby blue shorts and one of her brothers’ white cotton shirts and she looked like a beautiful boy with the wind tossing her short raven curls over her brow. Her eyes were turbulent, filled with a great restlessness, an enquiring love of life that could find no expression in speech. Carefully she laid her beloved fiddle on a rocky cradle, then ran straight into the sea to splash joyfully over to Jon. Her fingers told him the blithe message. ‘The sun is shining and it is a beautiful day.’
‘You remembered!’ Jon cried in delight. ‘You will learn more of your special language, Rachel. I will teach you many words before I have to go back to Oban.’
Squint barked and threw his body into a curving golden arch as he leapt like a dolphin over the waves. He was a lovable clown of a dog, as much in love with life as his small mistress, and the children rolled him onto his back in which position he remained quite contentedly, trusting implicitly the human hands that held him as the sea cradled him and swirled his floppy ears back and forth. His tongue lolled from the side of his mouth and he seemed to be grinning as one eye gazed thoughtfully at the sky and the other kept guard on Rachel. Later, when the eggs were being rolled over the hillocks, he chased after them, pouncing on them, tossing them into the air before fetching them back uncracked to their owners. Everyone was in a state of high spirits. For once Grant and Fiona were agreeable to one another, and when he saw the eggs she had painted for him, he let out a burst of laughter.
Rachel stood with her arms folded behind her back watching everyone rolling their eggs.
‘What a pity we don’t have one with her name on it,’ Kirsteen murmured.
‘Oh yes we do,’ Grant said, and with a flourish presented Rachel with one of his eggs. She gazed at the loops of black hair, the grinning face and finally turned the egg round to see the word ‘Dimples’. The ruse couldn’t have been more successful. The dimples on her cheeks deepened, and brandishing the egg above her head she took to her heels, her brown legs a blur as she careered down the slope with Squint prancing beside her.
When the picnic was over everyone sat on the sands in replete contentment listening to Jon and Rachel, who sat side by side on the rocks playing their violins to the accompaniment of sea and wind. The melodies soared and blended with the sounds of nature, for nothing was more natural than to hear the music of instruments that were meant to be played in the open air. Terns, razorbills, and shearwaters cried from the cliffs and plummeted into the blue water as the strains of the fiddles filled the bay with sweet refrains. Jon’s touch was sure, the bow silk against gossamer, the notes fine yet full of a liquid resonance that were one moment like the gentle waves lapping the shore, the next like the wild seas crashing, racing before the wind. Jon and Rachel were lost in the magic of music. The young man was enchanted by the untamed child, in his mind he likened her beauty t
o that of the wild harebells fluttering in the wind, fragile yet strong, a wildflower at one with the solitude and grandeur of nature.
Everyone had gathered into pairs. Lorn and Lewis sat side by side on the flat smooth stones over the rock pools, dangling their feet in the warm water; Shona’s glowing auburn head was on Niall’s shoulder, and little Helen was asleep in her arms; Babbie and Anton were perched at the entrance to a cave, his blond head close to her red one, her green eyes sparkling as he murmured things for her ears alone; Alick was with Mary; Fiona and Grant sat companionably side by side; Lachlan, his unruly hair blowing over his eyes, his thin face solemn as he listened to the music, had his arm protectively round Phebie’s shoulders.
Only Fergus and Kirsteen remained apart from each other. Idly he played with the shells at his feet, picking them up, poking them back into the sand. He gave the impression of nonchalance, but every fibre in him longed to go over and crush Kirsteen to his heart, to feel her warm sweet nearness, to kiss her lips, caress her, tell her that he was sorry, for now that unreasoning anger had left him, he was sorry and longed to tell her so. He glanced at her from lowered brows. She was sitting against the shimmering blue-green backdrop of the sea, her hands clasped round her knees, the white dress blurring her curves to a softness that made her look not only gorgeous but strangely spiritual. Her fair head was thrown back, her chin proudly tilted; the symmetry of her profile was of the stuff that made poets pick up their pens; her skin was smooth and tanned, the tiny hairs on her arms bleached almost white after just a day in the sun. She was gazing straight ahead as if absorbed in the music. Fergus pulled in his breath – she was a million miles away from him, so aloof she appeared not to be aware of his existence. She had tried to speak to him, to tell him she was sorry – but he hadn’t listened. Once more he had made the mistake of thinking he alone had the power to call the tune, but he had underestimated her own power, the strength of will that had once made her turn her back on all that she loved, to leave him knowing that she was carrying his child. The pain of his love for her ripped him apart. They had to talk – about Lorn – about everything, but she seemed now to be beyond his reach . . .
Children of Rhanna Page 14